Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes
by Agatha Doyle
Summary: A series of responses to the Christmas Advent Calendar Challenge proposed by Hades Lord of the Dead and Spockologist. UPDATE: New response to MyelleWhite...again
1. 3rd December

**Note from Agatha: A response to mrspencil's 3rd December story prompt - 'Include the words "violin", "revenge", and "chandelier".'**

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><p><strong>A Musical Punishment<strong>

"This way, Holmes," I said, gingerly leading my battered and bruised friend through the doorway of our sitting room.

"Watson, the fall did not injure me so senselessly that I cannot remember the layout of my own lodgings!" Holmes said, irritably, wrenching his arm from mine, and seating himself on the settee with a painful wince. I smiled, rather fondly at his ridiculous pride, and plumped up a few cushions so as to make him more comfortable. Having taken up many dangerous cases in his time as the world's only consulting detective, Holmes had often injured himself in spectacular ways. This, however, though not being his most dangerous case (nor, thankfully, his most serious injury,) was certainly the _most_ spectacular accident that had ever befallen him.

Holmes and I had been called urgently to the luxurious London dwellings of Lady Esther Anne Coons, the renowned opera singer, who had recently returned from a short stay in Paris to find her glorious collection of inherited diamond jewellery stolen (One particular item, a ring, contained the legendary Coons Jewel, a diamond of remarkable quality, found by Lady Esther's own grandfather and his workers whilst mining a mountainside in South Africa.) The case, though trivial (as Holmes had termed it,) had taken a little longer than Holmes had expected to solve – a total of two days – and had eventually culminated in him chasing the culprit (Lady Esther's nephew,) up on to the grand chandelier that was the centrepiece of the main entrance hall. The young man had rather foolishly leapt there from the top of the high staircase in the hope of gaining safety, clearly not expecting Holmes to follow. The outcome was inevitable.

"You're lucky you weren't more seriously injured!" I berated Holmes, as I examined the black and purple bruises that mottled his pale face. "Two fractured ribs, a few cuts, and some severe bruising was the very least I was expecting – Young Mr. Brunwin came away with a broken leg!"

"Hopefully it will not detain him too long," Holmes said with a sniff, brushing my concerned hand away. "The little wretch deserves everything he can expect at Scotland Yard! What has become of young people nowadays, Watson, when it is deemed acceptable to steal from your elders?"

I frowned, deeply at Holmes.

"You weren't exactly respectful towards Lady Esther yourself, Holmes," I reminded him. The two days that we had spent in the magnificent Coons house had been awkward to say the least, as a battle of musical tastes had erupted between Holmes and Lady Esther. Holmes gave an indignant snort.

" '_A passionate voice' _indeed!" he sneered, quoting from a glowing review that had been made of one of Lady Esther's many sell-out performances. "Honestly, Watson, the woman wailed like one of the great, mournful whales in the ocean!"

I smothered a grin, for Holmes's choice of words was appropriate in more than one sense – Firstly, I agreed with him that I could not see the appeal that Lady Esther's voice seemed to have. Secondly, the lady was enormously fat.

"And as for her thoughts on my violin playing...! Really, Watson, the woman has _no _musical taste, none whatsoever! She would not know beautiful music if it was played to her from the harp of Apollo himself!"

"But Holmes, you must be fair," I reasoned, gently; "I'm sure no one in the world is capable of appreciating good music at two o'clock in the morning."

"I was merely attempting to introduce the lady to a bit of _culture!_" Holmes protested, hotly. "Bach is quite suitable for any time of the day or night, Watson. No, the lady has no musical taste. Heaven forbid that I shall ever hear the mournful wails that she dubs _singing_ ever again!"

Just then, Mrs. Hudson entered the room, bearing a message on a silver tray.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, a message for you both," she said, but, upon seeing Holmes's sour expression, presented the tray to me. I felt my stomach sink a little as I recognised the hand of Lady Esther Coons on the face of the envelope.

"Not a bill for damages, I hope," I muttered as I tore the message open, but I was relieved to find enclosed a cheque for Holmes's fee, and a short note of thanks written from Lady Esther. There was also, I was surprised to see, a pair of concert tickets.

"Holmes," I gasped, as I read the name of the performance upon the tickets; "These are two tickets for _'Mitridate, re di Ponto'!_"

I started as Holmes's arm lunged at me, but he flinched and gave a yell of pain before he could seize the tickets. After recovering, he looked at me with gleaming eyes of wonder.

" '_Mitridate, re di Ponto'!_" he echoed, breathlessly, and the name sounded like music on his lips. "Watson, that is impossible! The performance has been sold out for close to a month! Are your sure that you have read the tickets correctly?"

I held the tickets out to him so that he could see for himself, and his face flushed, passionately with excitement.

"Oh, the dear woman!" he cried, and I staggered back as I realised he was talking of Lady Esther; "To be so grateful, so generous, so utterly gracious...! This is truly a classic piece of opera, my dear Watson. It is six hours in length, and every note of it is a drop of purest Heaven, created by Mozart when he was just fourteen years of age! The performance is only being staged here in London for one night. We simply _must_ see it, Watson, we _must!_"

"But Holmes," I stammered, still in shock, "you're injuries are far too fresh to allow..."

"Bah!" Holmes barked, fiercely. "Music is the treatment that I require, Watson! You know that beautiful music such as this is the very balm of life to me. No, we simply _must _attend! I'll have Mrs. Hudson press our finest theatre garments, we must look our best, after all..."

And so it was that we found ourselves journeying to the theatre that night, in our very finest evening attire, Holmes brimming with excitement at the prospect of a full six hours worth of glorious Mozart. We entered the auditorium arm in arm, Holmes hobbling along beside me, and soon found that Lady Esther had secured us very good seats. I felt a thrill of anticipation as the house lanterns were extinguished, and a dark figure walked slowly in to view in to the soft, ethereal lights of the stage...

My eyes widened with horror, and I turned to see that Holmes wore a truly indescribable expression upon his face, as we both recognised the enormously fat person of _Lady Esther!_ Her adoring public clapped around us while we sank in to our seats, and as that great, smiling mouth opened wide to let out its first, ear-piercing, mournful wail, I knew that Lady Esther Anne Coons had, without doubt, had her unquestionable revenge against Sherlock Holmes.


	2. 4th December

**Note from Agatha: A response to MyelleWhite's one word prompt for 4th December - 'Female'. It may have been short, but it got me thinking...**

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><p><strong>Scarlet Holmes<strong>

"Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?" Stamford asked me with undisguised wonder, as we sat opposite each other at a table in the Holborn restaurant. "You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut."

And indeed I was. I was not long returned from military service in Afghanistan, serving as an army doctor with Her Majesty's Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and looked far from my best. Out on the battlefield, I had been struck in the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, shattering my bone and grazing my subclavian artery. Had it not been for the bravery of Murray, my young orderly, who threw me across a packhorse and brought me back to safety in the heat of battle, I should have fallen in to the hands of the murderous Ghazis. Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships I had suffered, I was taken by train with a great many other wounded servicemen to the hospital at Peshawar, where I had the great misfortune to contract enteric fever. For months my life was despaired of, and when I at last came through the fever, weakened and emaciated, it was decided by a medical board that not a single day should be lost in sending me back to England. And so here I was, without kith or kin, living off of a measly army pension of eleven shillings and sixpence a day, and searching in vain for a set of rooms that I could reasonably rent, when I had stumbled across my old Bart's colleague Stamford at the Criterion Bar, and we had happily gone to lunch together at the Holborn.

When I had finished this short sketch of my adventures, Stamford looked at me, sympathetically.

"Poor devil! What are you up to now?"

"Looking for lodgings," I answered. "Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price."

Here, Stamford chuckled a little.

"That's a strange thing," he remarked. "You are the second person to use that expression to me today."

"And who was the first?" I asked.

"A young trainee nurse working in the chemical laboratory at the hospital."

"A trainee nurse!" I said with raised eyebrows. "What on earth is a trainee nurse doing in the chemical laboratory?"

"Frankly, Watson, I don't know, and every time I gently try to shoo her out of the place, I'm rebuffed with a frosty stare! She shouldn't be in there, of course, but she doesn't seem to be doing any damage – in fact, I would say that she is an absolutely first class chemist! – so I just leave her to it. There have been times, however, when I have been almost inclined to inform some of the doctors of her little experiments..."

"Why is that?"

"She has some...unusual alleys of investigation. I have met many medical students in the past who have had an almost morbid taste for performing bizarre experiments simply out of curiosity, but beating the subjects in the dissecting room with a stick is by far the _most_ bizarre quirk I have ever seen, particularly from a lady."

"Beating the subjects!" I cried.

"Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw her at it with my own eyes."

"And you say that she is apparently in the same predicament as I?" I said, curiously. Stamford looked at me, rather suspiciously, over his wine glass.

"Yes," he began, slowly. "She was bemoaning herself this morning that she could not get someone to go halves with her on a nice set of rooms which she had found, and which were too much for her purse. I think she is rather like yourself – Free as the air, with no family or close friends of any kind."

"By Jove!" I cried, putting down my glass, decisively; "If all she wants is for someone to share the rooms and the expense, it would be ideal for us both!"

I knew that what I proposed was incredibly unorthodox, and as it was, Stamford stared at me astonishment.

"Watson, has the Afghan sun sent you quite mad?" he said, appalled. "For a gentleman to share rooms with an unattached, unmarried lady...! There would be no end of talk! Really, I thought you a decent fellow!"

I did not pretend not to be chagrined by the last remark, and as it was, Stamford looked a little embarrassed with himself, and made an apologetic face.

"You know I have never been one to pay much heed to gossip, Stamford," I said, severely. "I am in extremely bad health, and need a place to rest and recover. That takes precedence over the thought of what any idle tongues may say. And in any case, the lady and I should have our own halves of the apartment quite separate from each other."

"Of course, old fellow, I'm sorry."

"What is important if whether or not you think the young lady would object to a male companion?"

"I rather think not," Stamford said, thoughtfully, taking a sip of his wine. "She is not the most socially well groomed of ladies. You will see that when you meet her."

"Why, what is there against her? Don't be mealymouthed about it, Stamford."

"Oh, I didn't say that there was anything against her character!" Stamford said, hastily. "Indeed, she is a gentlewoman through and through, well-bred and with every bit a polite and well-composed manner, and yet...Well, I have told you of her peculiar habits. It is simply the fact that every ladylike custom she seems to fling out of the window! I am not so worried that she will be offended by you as you will be offended by her."

The waiter came to clear our tablecloth, and I signalled to him for our bill, and rose to my feet.

"I am still not at all sure that I understand you, Stamford, but it is not often that I find ladies offensive. Perhaps I should meet this...What did you say her name was?"

"I didn't, but her name is Holmes. Scarlet Holmes."

"Well then, perhaps I should meet this peculiar Miss Scarlet Holmes, and find out just what it is that you mean!"

We promptly made our way to St. Bartholomew's Hospital in a hansom, and I soon found myself walking familiar territory, ascending the bleak stone staircase, and journeying down long corridors with whitewashed walls and dun-coloured doors. We came to a low arched passage that branched away from the end of one of the larger, main corridors, and followed it all the way down to the chemical laboratory.

This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles, and with broad, low tables scattered about, their surfaces covered with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen burners, their blue flames flickering. There was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant table, absorbed in their work. I glimpsed a white lab coat, and a head of dark hair, and assumed that it was one of the hospital's student doctors working on a project. I was just about to turn to Stamford and ask if he knew of anywhere else where this young trainee nurse might be, when the figure at the far end of the room suddenly looked up, and I almost staggered back in surprise.

"Stamford! I've found it, I've found it!" the young woman cried, racing towards us with a test-tube in her hand. "I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else!"

Stamford looked at me, slyly, and I knew that he could see the shock and near horror that I could not keep from manifesting itself on my features. Such a standard of deportment would have had the lady stoned to death as a prostitute had she been out on the street! Her hair – a fantastic mane of jet black curls, as glossy as the feathers of a raven – fell about her shoulders in thick waves, unrestrained by any sort of pin or hair-tie whatsoever. Her style of dress was most unusual, as, beneath the white lab coat, I could see that she wore no kind of gown or skirts at all, but a pair of black canvas trousers, fastened at the sides with metallic buttons, which meant that the shape of her legs could very much be seen. Such a thing was not modest, and I felt quite embarrassed at the sight. The young lady, however, seemed not the least bit ashamed. For the rest of her, she was quite a striking sort of woman, with a pale face and white, shapely hands, blotted with ink and chemical stains, and covered with a good deal of sticking plaster. Her nose was thin and hawk-like in appearance, her cheek bones high and well defined, her chin rather pointed, and her eyes a piercing, steely grey, with the most indescribable look in them. I found myself struck more by her signs of fierce intelligence, rather than by her beauty (which was certainly not lacking, but was not particularly remarkable either.)

"Dr. Watson," Stamford said, with a gesture of introduction; "Miss Scarlet Holmes."

"How are you?" the lady said, cordially, taking my hand. "Please don't feel any need to bow or kiss my hand, Doctor, I really cannot abide that sort of thing. And I fancy that bowing would not be very comfortable for you, seeing as you have recently been shipped home from military service Afghanistan with a rather serious injury."

"How on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.

"Oh, never mind," she said with a chuckle. "The question now is about haemoglobin. As a medical man, I'm sure you will be able to appreciate the significance of my discovery, Doctor. Follow me!"

I was completely caught off guard as the lady actually grabbed my coat sleeve in her eagerness, and led me over to the bench where she had been working.

"Now," she said, decisively, taking hold of her long curls, and pulling them back with the aid of a length of purple ribbon; "Let us have some fresh blood." Here she quite startled me by actually digging a long bodkin in to her own finger, and drawing away the resulting drop of blood with a chemical pipette! "Watch closely, Doctor. I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. When we apply the Scarlet Holmes Test, however..."

Here she threw in to the water vessel a few white crystals and some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant, the contents assumed a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated at the bottom of the glass jar.

"...And _there!_" she said, proudly. "What do you make of that?"

"It is interesting, chemically, no doubt," I answered, observing the extraordinary reaction; "But practically..."

"Why, sir, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years!" Scarlet Holmes cried. "Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains? The old guaiacum test was very clumsy and uncertain, as is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty for their crimes. And to think," she added with a contemptuous snort, "it is the opinion of some that women's brains are far too small to contain all the knowledge that a fully qualified doctor requires!"

"Indeed," I muttered, looking at Stamford in amazement.

"Oh, there are limits to what a brain may store, certainly," the lady said, seating herself upon a stool, and offering a seat to me as well. "Initially, the brain of a human being is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. If a person takes in too much furniture of every sort, then the knowledge which may be useful to them gets lost and crowded out, and jumbled up with a lot of other things, so that you cannot lay your hands upon it when you need it. A skilful thinker, however, be they man _or _woman, is very careful indeed as to what they take in to their brain-attic. They will have nothing but the tools which may help them in doing their work, but of these they will have a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little brain-attic had elastic walls." She tapped the side of her head, meaningfully. I simply sat and gazed at her in pure amazement. Seeing my look, the lady laughed to herself, and shook her head.

"But I have been most discourteous towards you, Doctor," she said, getting up from her seat, and removing her lab coat to hang it on a nearby hook. "I have not even bothered to ask you why Stamford has brought you here, although I think I can guess."

"I have no doubt that you can," I muttered, respectfully, watching as the young lady replaced her white lab coat with a black, velvet-trimmed blazer, and then, to my complete surprise, unfastened the buttons along the hems of her trousers, and then joined them together again in a quite different way, transforming the garment in to a much more respectable skirt.

"We came here on business," Stamford explained, walking forwards. "You see, my friend here is searching – "

"For affordable lodgings where he may recuperate after suffering injury and a severe period of bad health whilst serving as an army doctor in Afghanistan," Miss Holmes said, matter-of-factly, while adjusting her skirts. "Yes, I can see that, Stamford."

"But this is simply amazing!" I cried in wonder. "My dear lady, you simply _must _tell me how you have managed to deign so much about me from a single glance!"

Scarlet Holmes smiled, politely, and once again seated herself on the stool opposite mine. And as this remarkable lady sat before me, confidently and eloquently explaining her swift, yet incredibly detailed, and stunningly accurate study of my person, I attempted, meekly, and without much success, to make my own small study in Scarlet.


	3. 6th December

**Note from Agatha: A response to MyelleWhite's 6th December prompt, 'Mycroft intervenes'. The fluffiness ran away with me ;)**

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><p><strong>The Voice of Reason<strong>

"Well, that was an absolute and unmitigated _disaster!_" I cried, furiously, bursting through the door of our sitting room.

"How so, Watson?" came Holmes's innocent query from just behind me. "I myself thought the case was quite a success."

I halted in my straight beeline for the warmth of the fire, and turned, incredulously to face him, almost spluttering with rage as I saw that he was casually hanging up his coat, his face bearing no sign at all of jesting (Though I should not even have had to look at him to deign that. Holmes never jested.)

"Holmes, can you be _quite _serious?" I said, disbelievingly, gesturing to my dripping clothes and weed-strewn coat, my entire form absolutely caked with silt. "One of Howard's men punched me in to the Thames!"

"_Pushed _you, Watson, he _pushed _you," Holmes said, chidingly, as he removed his shoes and began searching about for his slippers; "There is no need to be quite so melodramatic about it."

Hot blood rushed to my face while my temples pounded, fiercely, and I was convinced that my head would surely explode with fury!

"No, Holmes, he _punched _me!" I said, angrily mimicking my companion's matter-of-fact tone, and brushing the wet hair from my face to reveal the throbbing black eye that the roughian had given me. "I was left to fight three rogues single-handedly, while you and Howard chatted on the warehouse roof about the value of obscure African witchcraft relics!"

Holmes emerged from under the settee with his black velvet slippers and a frosty glare.

"First and foremost, Watson," he said, severely; "They were not relics of African witchcraft, they were relics of Caribbean voodoo. Secondly, I would hardly call conversing with a wanted thief and smuggler on the dangerous rooftop of a warehouse _chatting. _I was attempting to negotiate with him. Howard is a very intelligent man..."

I looked at him, aghast, as I rang the brown water from my coat over the hearth rug.

"_Intelligent?_" I echoed him. "Holmes, am I to understand that you are now paying violent criminals compliments?"

Holmes merely dusted off his slippers, and sat himself down on the settee as he put them on.

"Intelligence of any kind is to be admired, Watson," he said, once again adopting that infuriating air of a school master lecturing a young pupil. "That is something that I had hoped you would come to appreciate in all our years together. But alas, no. You are as romantic and emotional as ever – Holding affections and feelings of disgust, rage, and justice over the colder, more thoughtful purpose of life."

"And indeed," I replied, knowing full well to what he was referring, and holding back the urge to say something equally hurtful in return, "you think that life better, Holmes?"

"Of course," he stated, a little wearily, as though it was an obvious philosophical viewpoint on which to stand. "It is certainly a more ordered path to take through life. One is free from burdens of loyalty and familiarity, guarded against any emotional injury and strain – " I saw him glance, meaningfully at me, but turned my eyes, resolutely away – "It is a _practical _lifestyle. All men are easily defined to he who adopts such a mode of thinking. Either they are useful, or they are not useful. Either they are the enemies of reason and ordered society, and, therefore, of him personally, or they may be counted as trustworthy – As useful tools with which he may further create order in his surroundings."

I felt utterly galled by his statement.

"I was unaware that you regarded me as a _tool, _Holmes," I muttered, resentfully, feeling degraded to the level of a prized sniffer-dog, as I removed my soaking wet hat.

"Then you are blind, my dear Watson," Holmes said, the complete lack of emotion in his voice more hurtful than any sneer of contempt could have been. "I have never kept it a secret from you. But you should be honoured, for I see that you are a truly worthy man – One whom I may trust, and who will assist me in all things, one who – "

"Who you may use to achieve your own ends?" I asked, bitterly.

A perplexed line appeared between Holmes's eyebrows.

"Really, Watson, I feel that you are receiving this entirely the wrong way," he said, as though my reaction to his unspeakably brutal words was unreasonable. "I meant to compliment you. But I see that you have grown sensitive over the years. It is an unfortunate development on your part, Watson, and one that I feared would happen on the occasion of your marriage..."

"DON'T YOU _DARE _SPEAK OF HER LIKE THAT!" I bellowed, my anger at last gushing out of me, and my bowler hat flying from my hand. "Mary was the greatest comfort to me when I thought you..."

But I was stopped in mid-flow, as a crash suddenly sounded from across the room. The pair of us looked up to see that my hat had collided with the delicate glass tubes of Holmes's chemistry apparatus, toppling containers, and spilling their contents over the table and floor, while one bottle had actually smashed. At first, I feared Holmes's reaction, and looked at him with a terrible wave of guilt. But, whilst his face was certainly stony, I heard no rebuke from him as he went over to inspect the damage.

"Case in point, Watson," he said, finally, standing one of the toppled glass jars upright again. "Passionate emotion creates chaos."

I could not believe what I was hearing, and felt a truly murderous rage enter my body.

"Holmes, will I _never_ get it through to you?" I cried, exasperatedly. "Emotion, depth, feeling, conscience – They are the defining features of our humanity! They are essential, inescapable! You cannot tell me that there is nothing for which you feel love?"

"Oh, but indeed I can, Watson," Holmes said, clasping his hands behind his back, and lifting his eyes heavenwards, as though he were above it all. "Attachment is the least advisable of all the emotions. You yourself know that."

Before I could lay hands on him in a fury, however, a wicked idea came to me, and I gave in to my inner demon, and followed it through with glee.

"Holmes, there _is _something that you love," I said, making my way over to the corner. "It has an effect on you which you cannot deny, and I rather think that you will be swayed by my argument yet!"

"Watson, I fear that you are becoming increasingly – "

I smirked with unashamed delight as Holmes looked up, and his face whitened at the sight of me clutching his precious Stradivarius in one hand...and a pair of Mrs. Hudson's dressmaking scissors in the other. There was a moment's silence between us.

"Watson, you wouldn't _dare!_"

I smiled, triumphantly at him, raised the scissors to the strings of the violin, and, without a moment's hesitation, snipped them apart so that they broke away in hectic curls, giving a sharp, out of tune _'ping'_.

Holmes's eyes flashed with fury – such fury as I had never seen in him before – and he sprang to the fireplace, and snatched up the iron poker, brandishing it, savagely in my direction.

"You will regret that _severely_, my friend!" he hissed, venomously.

"_Bring it on, Holmes!_" [1] I cried, grabbing hold of one of my old canes from the umbrella stand.

We both charged forwards with a violent cry, leaping over furniture in our half-mad attempts to get to each other and inflict revenge. My bad leg, however, rather hindered me, and I fell, crumpled on to the hearth rug. Struggling to get to my knees, I heard a wild battle cry above me, and dived across the sitting room floor just in time, as the iron poker came crashing down a mere four or five inches from my body with a reverberating clang. Crawling under the settee, I emerged on the other side, and turned to face Holmes not a moment too soon, as the poker and my walking cane locked together like the blades of swordsmen in battle. I forced my good shoulder in to Holmes's chest, sending him flying back a good few feet across the sitting room, and toppling over the chair where he usually sat at work with his chemicals. I ran forwards, knocking the chair aside with my cane, but was buffered back as Holmes's slippers came in to contact with my knees. I fell, flat on my back, and barely had time to open my eyes before Holmes sprang on me, grabbing at my lapels in an attempt to throttle me, while all I could do was throttle him in reply, struggling, mightily against his formidable strength, and waiting for an opportunity where I could possibly make a grab for my cane again...

"_What on earth is going on here?_"

Above me, I saw Holmes's eyes widen suddenly, and we both glanced to the doorway to see the unmistakable, large figure of Mycroft Holmes staring, aghast at us, wearing what appeared to be a very new, coal black suit of gleaming, Italian silk, and carrying a striped box under his arm.

"Brother Mine!" Holmes gasped, his pale ears turning redder than I had ever seen them, as he quickly climbed off of me, and straightened up. "To what do we owe this rare pleasure?"

"Lord Cranmer was inestimably grateful to you for retrieving those damning letters for him, and showered me with rewards to present to you, thank God!" Mycroft said, coming in to the room, and hitting his brother, rather harshly with the end of his cane. "It must have been an angel that whispered in my ear and told me to bring them over tonight – _despite_, I might add, my being _extremely _worn out from Lord Cranmer's dragging me to his favourite tailor to fit me with a new suit as a sign of thanks – or I should not have arrived to prevent you two from killing each other!"

He looked, questioningly between us, and I saw his eyes flicker over my sodden clothes.

"Dr. Watson, what on _earth _has happened to you?"

I threw off my ruined coat and suit jacket, and made for the door of the sitting room.

"You may well ask Holmes that, Mycroft!" I called over my shoulder. "I am going to take a bath!"

It transpired, however, that I couldn't take a bath, as Mrs. Hudson had not recently prepared any hot water. So I was forced to wash my filthy hair and face in a basin full of cold, soapy water, and scrubbed the rest of the river silt off of my body as best I could. I donned my nightshirt and dressing gown with the intention of going to bed, but found that the niggling thought which had first made itself known upon my leaving the sitting room still stubbornly refused to go away, and I sighed, and made my way downstairs. Guilt would not leave me alone, even in a situation where I knew I had done no wrong! I had to say sorry.

As I approached the sitting room door, however, I heard an earnest muttering coming from the fireside, and peered in to see Mycroft bending over Holmes's armchair in the manner of a father patiently listening to the tearful ramblings of an upset child. Holmes, however, I could not see.

"Ah, Dr. Watson!" Mycroft said, suddenly, and I almost started out of my skin. "Come in, Mrs. Hudson has prepared some coffee for the three of us. I feel we are rather all in need of it. Come, come, sit down, I have something to discuss with you."

I hesitantly made my way in to the ransacked sitting room, flushing with embarrassment at the sight of what Holmes and I had done in our blind, ridiculous rage, and slowly lowered myself on to the settee. Mycroft stood, smiling, expectantly, and I realised that he was waiting for Holmes and I to look at each other. I shifted, uncomfortably in my seat, steadfastly keeping my gaze fixed on the fire, but eventually felt compelled to turn my head in Holmes's direction. He was sitting, huddled in his armchair, having now donned his purple dressing gown, with his knees drawn up under his chin, rather in the manner of a sulking child. I had almost made up my mind there and then to ignore my guilty urge to apologize, when I suddenly noticed his tear-stained face and red eyes in the flickering firelight. He had been crying! In all the years that I had spent with him, I could not recall a single instance where I had seen Sherlock Holmes cry, and the sight of it now positively stunned me! I turned to Mycroft in open-mouthed astonishment, and he smiled, kindly back at me, his eyes alight with amusement.

"_Well,_" he sighed, dramatically. "The pair of you _have _had a bad night!"

"Mycroft," I began, for I couldn't bear to address Holmes, "I've been an absolute fool, I can see that. I don't know what came over me! Please, tell Holmes that I will happily pay for repairing the violin, I _never _wished to hurt him..."

I was bordering on emotional, and Mycroft calmly held up a hand.

"There now, Doctor," he said, seating himself, heavily on the arm of the armchair which I usually occupied. "Don't distress yourself. That's the last thing poor Sherlock wants, I assure you."

I felt Holmes's eyes on me as Mycroft leaned over to the coffee table to poor us some coffee, but was too afraid to look at him.

"You see," Mycroft said, handing me a hot, steaming cup, and encouraging me to drink from it, "dear Sherlock here is terribly afraid that he has upset you. He has gotten it in to his head that you will leave Baker Street because he has been so disregarding of your feelings, not just tonight, but on many occasions, one of which I think we need not mention. He feels that he is incapable of communicating to you just how much he values you, not just as an associate and a colleague, but also as a constant companion." I hardly blinked as Mycroft smiled, warmly, and patted my knee. "You are his dearest friend, my good Watson – I would wager to say, even, his _only _friend, and he feels that having grown so used to your company and support, he would quite fall apart without you, though that has not been an easy thing for him to admit, you understand..."

"I'm sorry, Watson."

I jumped at the sound of Holmes's voice, and even more so to hear that there was a small, yet ever so vulnerable, timid whimper to it. I turned to him, and found myself looking in to his bright, tear-filled, grey eyes, sad and pleading. Any remnant of my anger quite melted away at that point, and I smiled, and reached out to reassuringly squeeze the hand of the friend I had come to value almost as highly as a brother.

"As am I, Holmes," I said.

Mycroft Holmes sighed with satisfaction, and sank in to my armchair with a cup of coffee.

* * *

><p>[1] Victorian it is not...But it was just crying out to be put it!<p> 


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